Shadows of the Night - 6/15 - AU - SPN fic
Title: Shadows of the Night
Author: starpixie16
Chapters: 6/15
Rating: NC-17 [mild language, explicit sexual content (chapter 9)]
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean/OFC
Warning/Spoilers: AU, sexual situations; vague allusions to events from season one.
Summary: In September 1932, Sam and Dean Winchester receive a telegram leading them to California. On their last night there, Sam suddenly has a nightmare of a man's death at the hands of a mysterious woman. The brothers investigate, and in the process, Sam learns a few secrets about Dean's past.
Author's Notes: Many huge thanks to elanurel for being my beta. This story also serves as my response to challenge #8 at spn_het_love: Then She Appeared.
<< Previous Chapter
Shadows of the Night
______________________________
Chapter Six
The apparent speakeasy Dean had selected for dinner was inside a nondescript building located in a dingy section of town. In fact, the speakeasy itself was on the second floor, appearing from the outside as an innocent apartment. The noises emanating from inside betrayed that illusion, however -- the sounds of laughter and boisterous conversation were barely muffled by the heavy wooden door.
Dean knocked twice; two short, loud raps that sounded hollow against the solid wood. A peephole slid open from the other side and Dean jabbed his index finger through it in a joking manner. The man behind the door jerked backward, narrowly avoiding a poke in the eye. Sam thought that Dean must have been insane. There was no telling who ran this place, and he was pretty sure gangsters didn't go for someone trying to gouge their eyes out.
Then to Sam's surprise, he could hear a hearty laugh coming from inside, growing louder as the door swung inward.
"Dean Winchester!" The man slapped his brother on the shoulder. "Haven't seen you in a long time. Come on in!"
"Good to see you, Eddy." Dean greeted the burly man with a genuine grin. "This is my brother, Sam." He nodded toward him.
Eddy's eyes twinkled, and he took Sam's hand, pumping it enthusiastically. "Nice to meet you, Sam." He turned his gaze back to Dean, folding his arms over his chest. "Say, where's old John? How's he doing?"
"Good," Dean said simply. "Good."
"We haven't seen him lately," Sam added, feeling the need to be honest even in the presence of a complete stranger. "He sent us a telegram last week.
"Well, if you see the man, tell him to stop in next time he's around." Eddy smiled. "He's always welcome."
"I'll tell him," Dean promised. He glanced around, intense eyes apparently searching for something in the crowded room. "Matt around?"
"Sure, behind the bar the last I saw him." Eddy gestured to his right, looking in the general direction. "I don't see him now, but rest assured he'll be back soon. Go over and let him know you're here. He'll be glad to see you."
Dean smiled, nodding. "See you later, Ed." He patted the man on the back as he walked past.
Sam grinned faintly at Eddy, keeping in step with his older brother on their way to the bar in the front-center of the room. "Old friend of yours?" he inquired, tilting his head.
Dean glanced over. "Old friend of Dad's mostly. He didn't really know Ed as well as he knew Matt, though. Matt helped us on a case a while back."
"Matt's a hunter?" Sam raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Not really." Dean stepped around an empty table. "He's just an information source. Names, places, history, all the details. He helped us the last time we were in town. The guy knows nearly everyone around, in this town and every other. I thought -- "
"If anyone would know this Helena's identity, Matt would," Sam finished.
Dean nodded. "He might even know where we can find her."
Sam gazed around the room as they approached the bar. It was much bigger inside than he'd imagined it would be. Nearly all of the patrons were men, most dressed in tattered work clothing with a select few in suits similar to the ones he and Dean were wearing. The round, rickety-looking tables filled half of the space in the joint, each draped in red gingham table cloths that made the place look more like a church picnic than a seedy blind pig.
Smoke thickened the air in a foggy, blue haze that stung Sam's nostrils. The bare wood floor was creaky and dirty, covered in dried mud that had been tracked in by the boots of various customers. It was also littered with the butts of cigarettes that had been tossed carelessly onto the floor by bums who were too lazy to use an ashtray.
They stopped in front of the bar, taking seats on uncomfortable wooden stools. A man had stepped out of a back room shortly before they'd sat down, his back turned to them as he polished a tray full of empty glasses with a damp rag. Sam presumed that this man must have been Matt.
Dean brought out a cigarette from his pocket then smacked the palm of his hand flatly against the top of the bar. "Hey, it's the only big shot speak owner in town who has to do his own dishes!"
The man turned at the sound of Dean's voice, face breaking into a cheerful grin. "Dean! Boy, am I surprised to see you! Word was going around that you were dead. Coppers took you down in St. Louis."
"Oh, that." Dean smirked, shaking his head dismissively. "Let's say that was ... unusual circumstance. And the cops had very little to do with it. They're just taking credit."
The man nodded. "I got you. Just the hazards of a job like yours, eh?" He leaned forward, resting his arms on the bar's scratched-up surface. "Should've known better than to believe a story like that. It's gonna take more than a few lousy cops to make a Winchester fold up."
"Damn right," Dean agreed. He reached for his matchbook to light his cigarette, but Matt beat him to the punch, holding out a lighter. "Thanks, buddy," Dean said, taking the offered lighter to ignite the tip of the cigarette between his fingers.
The man's gaze shifted over to Sam. "Who've we got here? Not working with the old man anymore?"
Dean jerked a thumb toward his brother. "This is Sam." He paused to take a puff from his cigarette before continuing the introduction. "Sam, this is Matt Angelo."
"Sam?" Matt smiled. He was at least in his middle- to late-thirties, dark hair slicked with enough pomade to make it shine like black oil. "So I'm graced with the presence of both Winchester boys? Well, I'll be." He stuck out a hand. "Nice to meet you, kid. John talked about you so much the last time he was here that I feel like I met you already. Your ears oughta been burning."
Sam shook Matt's hand, surprised by the revelation that John had been mentioning him to his friends. He glanced over at Dean who was smiling slightly around the cigarette pressed between his lips, his eyes a silent admission that Matt wasn't making up stories about John's fatherly bragging.
"Thanks," Sam replied, returning a smile to match Matt's. "It's good to meet you too."
"You boys want drinks?" Matt offered, setting two clean glasses on the counter. "We got several kinds of beer imported from Canada."
"Imported?" Dean chuckled. "So that's what you're calling it these days."
"That's right," Matt answered with a sly grin. "We also got gin, rum, and whiskey. Pick your poison."
"Two beers." Dean selected without hesitation. "Save the hard stuff for another time."
"How about something to eat?" Matt suggested, pouring a beer from its bottle into one of the empty glasses. "Meal's free if you buy drinks. 'Course, maybe you don't remember. It's been about two years since you've been around."
"Sure, I remember." Dean flashed a grin. "Why do you think I came?"
Matt laughed, sliding the now-filled glasses over to each of them. "Actually I had two guesses as to why you came, and for a free meal wasn't one."
Sam looked over at Dean, who was sheepishly looking down at his hands. Turning his attention back to Matt, he watched as the man grabbed two plates from a lower cabinet beneath the bar.
"Do you know of a girl named Helena?" Dean spoke up without transition. Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew the photograph he had stolen from Timothy Adamson's bedroom dresser. He held it out for Matt to see.
"You should've gotten down to business earlier, kid," Matt teased. "Would've saved yourself some time." He took a look at the picture. "Oh, yeah." A grin of recognition crossed his face. "She's a Sheba. You lookin' for a date?"
Dean laughed. "No, she's too much of a demon for me. What do you know about her?"
"I get it. This is a case you're working." Matt's beady eyes sparked with realization.
Dean nodded. "This dame's connected with that string of murders that's been all over the papers. We'd like to hunt her down."
"Thought that case sounded pretty strange myself," Matt confessed. "Her name's Helena Larson. She's a regular at the Golden Peacock. Men come from all over to watch her dance in their floorshows." He watched as Dean tucked the photograph back into his jacket. "So what's her story? She a spook or something?"
Drawing on his cigarette, Dean shrugged. "Not really sure. We think she's more demon than spirit. I found some sulfur residue at one of the victims' houses."
Matt nodded. "Yeah, well, you boys know what you're looking for. Good luck finding her."
"Thanks," Dean replied. "We appreciate the help."
"I do what I can, kid. Any son of John's is welcome to whatever help I can give him."
Sam seized that opportunity to ask a new question that was now nagging at his mind. "Have you, by chance, heard from Dad recently?" From the corner of his eye, he noticed Dean shooting him an odd glance mixed with equal parts of annoyance and desperation.
"Nope, sorry, kid." Matt shook his head. "Your old man can hold his own, though. Don't you worry about him. When trouble finds John Winchester, it's always sorry in the end."
A proud smile lit Dean's expression. He quietly took a drag from his cigarette, inhaling a stream of nicotine into his lungs.
Matt was still holding the two plates in his hand, choosing them as a reason to change the subject. "You two should have something to eat. I think there's some things in the kitchen. I'll go fill up your plates. There's some empty tables if you want to sit somewhere more comfortable."
Dean declined. "Nah, we're fine."
Matt disappeared behind a swinging door, carrying a plate in each hand. Once he had gone, Dean took a long swig from his beer, letting the cool beverage flow down his throat. He set the glass down with a thunk against the oakwood bar.
Sam pursed his lips, petulance kicking in at having hit another dead-end in their ongoing search for their missing father. He sighed softly; a sigh that would have been unheard by everyone else in the room, but "everyone else" didn't happen to include his older brother.
"You know, Sam," Dean began, pausing to take a deep puff of tobacco, "Even when we do find Dad, you'll just give him an earful like you always do."
Sam narrowed his eyes. "No, I won't. I've been helping you search for him since last October. I want to find him, too, and not for a scrap."
Dean turned to meet his gaze, jaw set in what was clearly indifferent disbelief. "Sure, you say that now. We'll see."
"Dean, it's been nearly a year," Sam stated in frustration. "Aren't you sick of this, too? The unsigned telegrams, that telephone call in Illinois ... how does he know where we are when we haven't the slightest clue about how to find him?"
"He's got his ways, Sam," Dean returned with a firm tone that said he didn't care to have this argument yet again. "He knows what kind of stories in the paper will catch our attention. He knows what kind of places we stay at. I don't know how he puts it all together, but the man could've been a detective. There's a lot of folks out there he keeps in touch with. Maybe he gets information through them."
Sam shook his head. "Well, he certainly isn't contacting Matt." He let those words linger in the stale air for a moment before giving in to the curiosity that had been dogging him since the day they had set out for this town almost one week prior. "You and Dad were here how many years ago?"
Dean shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Two. Early September of '30."
"So, Matt helped you with that case?" Sam asked with interest. "I don't think you've ever mentioned the guy up until now. What were you and Dad investigating anyway?"
There was a drawn out silence that made Sam think maybe Dean was simply going to ignore him. Then his older brother cleared his throat with a brief cough, and finally began to reveal the story behind his last visit to the town of Colemont.
___________________________
FOOTNOTES:
Prohibition (1920-1933) banned the sale, transportation, and manufacture of alcohol (though not the consumption of it) prompting many illegal bars to pop up across the country. Speakeasies were secluded from public view, either in back rooms, basements, or under the guise of another establishment. The seedier, lower-class speakeasies were referred to as "blind pigs". To enter, a customer usually had to give a specific password to the man guarding the door. Police and Prohibition agents would sometimes raid these bars and arrest everyone inside, but in many cases the law enforcement was corrupt enough to be paid to look the other way -- even patronizing the speakeasy themselves.
The name "blind pig" originated from barkeepers charging their customers to see an attraction (such as an animal) while providing a "complimentary" alcoholic beverage -- a clever way of getting around laws banning the sale of alcohol.
Next Chapter >>
Author: starpixie16
Chapters: 6/15
Rating: NC-17 [mild language, explicit sexual content (chapter 9)]
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean/OFC
Warning/Spoilers: AU, sexual situations; vague allusions to events from season one.
Summary: In September 1932, Sam and Dean Winchester receive a telegram leading them to California. On their last night there, Sam suddenly has a nightmare of a man's death at the hands of a mysterious woman. The brothers investigate, and in the process, Sam learns a few secrets about Dean's past.
Author's Notes: Many huge thanks to elanurel for being my beta. This story also serves as my response to challenge #8 at spn_het_love: Then She Appeared.
<< Previous Chapter
Shadows of the Night
______________________________
Chapter Six
The apparent speakeasy Dean had selected for dinner was inside a nondescript building located in a dingy section of town. In fact, the speakeasy itself was on the second floor, appearing from the outside as an innocent apartment. The noises emanating from inside betrayed that illusion, however -- the sounds of laughter and boisterous conversation were barely muffled by the heavy wooden door.
Dean knocked twice; two short, loud raps that sounded hollow against the solid wood. A peephole slid open from the other side and Dean jabbed his index finger through it in a joking manner. The man behind the door jerked backward, narrowly avoiding a poke in the eye. Sam thought that Dean must have been insane. There was no telling who ran this place, and he was pretty sure gangsters didn't go for someone trying to gouge their eyes out.
Then to Sam's surprise, he could hear a hearty laugh coming from inside, growing louder as the door swung inward.
"Dean Winchester!" The man slapped his brother on the shoulder. "Haven't seen you in a long time. Come on in!"
"Good to see you, Eddy." Dean greeted the burly man with a genuine grin. "This is my brother, Sam." He nodded toward him.
Eddy's eyes twinkled, and he took Sam's hand, pumping it enthusiastically. "Nice to meet you, Sam." He turned his gaze back to Dean, folding his arms over his chest. "Say, where's old John? How's he doing?"
"Good," Dean said simply. "Good."
"We haven't seen him lately," Sam added, feeling the need to be honest even in the presence of a complete stranger. "He sent us a telegram last week.
"Well, if you see the man, tell him to stop in next time he's around." Eddy smiled. "He's always welcome."
"I'll tell him," Dean promised. He glanced around, intense eyes apparently searching for something in the crowded room. "Matt around?"
"Sure, behind the bar the last I saw him." Eddy gestured to his right, looking in the general direction. "I don't see him now, but rest assured he'll be back soon. Go over and let him know you're here. He'll be glad to see you."
Dean smiled, nodding. "See you later, Ed." He patted the man on the back as he walked past.
Sam grinned faintly at Eddy, keeping in step with his older brother on their way to the bar in the front-center of the room. "Old friend of yours?" he inquired, tilting his head.
Dean glanced over. "Old friend of Dad's mostly. He didn't really know Ed as well as he knew Matt, though. Matt helped us on a case a while back."
"Matt's a hunter?" Sam raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Not really." Dean stepped around an empty table. "He's just an information source. Names, places, history, all the details. He helped us the last time we were in town. The guy knows nearly everyone around, in this town and every other. I thought -- "
"If anyone would know this Helena's identity, Matt would," Sam finished.
Dean nodded. "He might even know where we can find her."
Sam gazed around the room as they approached the bar. It was much bigger inside than he'd imagined it would be. Nearly all of the patrons were men, most dressed in tattered work clothing with a select few in suits similar to the ones he and Dean were wearing. The round, rickety-looking tables filled half of the space in the joint, each draped in red gingham table cloths that made the place look more like a church picnic than a seedy blind pig.
Smoke thickened the air in a foggy, blue haze that stung Sam's nostrils. The bare wood floor was creaky and dirty, covered in dried mud that had been tracked in by the boots of various customers. It was also littered with the butts of cigarettes that had been tossed carelessly onto the floor by bums who were too lazy to use an ashtray.
They stopped in front of the bar, taking seats on uncomfortable wooden stools. A man had stepped out of a back room shortly before they'd sat down, his back turned to them as he polished a tray full of empty glasses with a damp rag. Sam presumed that this man must have been Matt.
Dean brought out a cigarette from his pocket then smacked the palm of his hand flatly against the top of the bar. "Hey, it's the only big shot speak owner in town who has to do his own dishes!"
The man turned at the sound of Dean's voice, face breaking into a cheerful grin. "Dean! Boy, am I surprised to see you! Word was going around that you were dead. Coppers took you down in St. Louis."
"Oh, that." Dean smirked, shaking his head dismissively. "Let's say that was ... unusual circumstance. And the cops had very little to do with it. They're just taking credit."
The man nodded. "I got you. Just the hazards of a job like yours, eh?" He leaned forward, resting his arms on the bar's scratched-up surface. "Should've known better than to believe a story like that. It's gonna take more than a few lousy cops to make a Winchester fold up."
"Damn right," Dean agreed. He reached for his matchbook to light his cigarette, but Matt beat him to the punch, holding out a lighter. "Thanks, buddy," Dean said, taking the offered lighter to ignite the tip of the cigarette between his fingers.
The man's gaze shifted over to Sam. "Who've we got here? Not working with the old man anymore?"
Dean jerked a thumb toward his brother. "This is Sam." He paused to take a puff from his cigarette before continuing the introduction. "Sam, this is Matt Angelo."
"Sam?" Matt smiled. He was at least in his middle- to late-thirties, dark hair slicked with enough pomade to make it shine like black oil. "So I'm graced with the presence of both Winchester boys? Well, I'll be." He stuck out a hand. "Nice to meet you, kid. John talked about you so much the last time he was here that I feel like I met you already. Your ears oughta been burning."
Sam shook Matt's hand, surprised by the revelation that John had been mentioning him to his friends. He glanced over at Dean who was smiling slightly around the cigarette pressed between his lips, his eyes a silent admission that Matt wasn't making up stories about John's fatherly bragging.
"Thanks," Sam replied, returning a smile to match Matt's. "It's good to meet you too."
"You boys want drinks?" Matt offered, setting two clean glasses on the counter. "We got several kinds of beer imported from Canada."
"Imported?" Dean chuckled. "So that's what you're calling it these days."
"That's right," Matt answered with a sly grin. "We also got gin, rum, and whiskey. Pick your poison."
"Two beers." Dean selected without hesitation. "Save the hard stuff for another time."
"How about something to eat?" Matt suggested, pouring a beer from its bottle into one of the empty glasses. "Meal's free if you buy drinks. 'Course, maybe you don't remember. It's been about two years since you've been around."
"Sure, I remember." Dean flashed a grin. "Why do you think I came?"
Matt laughed, sliding the now-filled glasses over to each of them. "Actually I had two guesses as to why you came, and for a free meal wasn't one."
Sam looked over at Dean, who was sheepishly looking down at his hands. Turning his attention back to Matt, he watched as the man grabbed two plates from a lower cabinet beneath the bar.
"Do you know of a girl named Helena?" Dean spoke up without transition. Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew the photograph he had stolen from Timothy Adamson's bedroom dresser. He held it out for Matt to see.
"You should've gotten down to business earlier, kid," Matt teased. "Would've saved yourself some time." He took a look at the picture. "Oh, yeah." A grin of recognition crossed his face. "She's a Sheba. You lookin' for a date?"
Dean laughed. "No, she's too much of a demon for me. What do you know about her?"
"I get it. This is a case you're working." Matt's beady eyes sparked with realization.
Dean nodded. "This dame's connected with that string of murders that's been all over the papers. We'd like to hunt her down."
"Thought that case sounded pretty strange myself," Matt confessed. "Her name's Helena Larson. She's a regular at the Golden Peacock. Men come from all over to watch her dance in their floorshows." He watched as Dean tucked the photograph back into his jacket. "So what's her story? She a spook or something?"
Drawing on his cigarette, Dean shrugged. "Not really sure. We think she's more demon than spirit. I found some sulfur residue at one of the victims' houses."
Matt nodded. "Yeah, well, you boys know what you're looking for. Good luck finding her."
"Thanks," Dean replied. "We appreciate the help."
"I do what I can, kid. Any son of John's is welcome to whatever help I can give him."
Sam seized that opportunity to ask a new question that was now nagging at his mind. "Have you, by chance, heard from Dad recently?" From the corner of his eye, he noticed Dean shooting him an odd glance mixed with equal parts of annoyance and desperation.
"Nope, sorry, kid." Matt shook his head. "Your old man can hold his own, though. Don't you worry about him. When trouble finds John Winchester, it's always sorry in the end."
A proud smile lit Dean's expression. He quietly took a drag from his cigarette, inhaling a stream of nicotine into his lungs.
Matt was still holding the two plates in his hand, choosing them as a reason to change the subject. "You two should have something to eat. I think there's some things in the kitchen. I'll go fill up your plates. There's some empty tables if you want to sit somewhere more comfortable."
Dean declined. "Nah, we're fine."
Matt disappeared behind a swinging door, carrying a plate in each hand. Once he had gone, Dean took a long swig from his beer, letting the cool beverage flow down his throat. He set the glass down with a thunk against the oakwood bar.
Sam pursed his lips, petulance kicking in at having hit another dead-end in their ongoing search for their missing father. He sighed softly; a sigh that would have been unheard by everyone else in the room, but "everyone else" didn't happen to include his older brother.
"You know, Sam," Dean began, pausing to take a deep puff of tobacco, "Even when we do find Dad, you'll just give him an earful like you always do."
Sam narrowed his eyes. "No, I won't. I've been helping you search for him since last October. I want to find him, too, and not for a scrap."
Dean turned to meet his gaze, jaw set in what was clearly indifferent disbelief. "Sure, you say that now. We'll see."
"Dean, it's been nearly a year," Sam stated in frustration. "Aren't you sick of this, too? The unsigned telegrams, that telephone call in Illinois ... how does he know where we are when we haven't the slightest clue about how to find him?"
"He's got his ways, Sam," Dean returned with a firm tone that said he didn't care to have this argument yet again. "He knows what kind of stories in the paper will catch our attention. He knows what kind of places we stay at. I don't know how he puts it all together, but the man could've been a detective. There's a lot of folks out there he keeps in touch with. Maybe he gets information through them."
Sam shook his head. "Well, he certainly isn't contacting Matt." He let those words linger in the stale air for a moment before giving in to the curiosity that had been dogging him since the day they had set out for this town almost one week prior. "You and Dad were here how many years ago?"
Dean shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Two. Early September of '30."
"So, Matt helped you with that case?" Sam asked with interest. "I don't think you've ever mentioned the guy up until now. What were you and Dad investigating anyway?"
There was a drawn out silence that made Sam think maybe Dean was simply going to ignore him. Then his older brother cleared his throat with a brief cough, and finally began to reveal the story behind his last visit to the town of Colemont.
___________________________
FOOTNOTES:
Prohibition (1920-1933) banned the sale, transportation, and manufacture of alcohol (though not the consumption of it) prompting many illegal bars to pop up across the country. Speakeasies were secluded from public view, either in back rooms, basements, or under the guise of another establishment. The seedier, lower-class speakeasies were referred to as "blind pigs". To enter, a customer usually had to give a specific password to the man guarding the door. Police and Prohibition agents would sometimes raid these bars and arrest everyone inside, but in many cases the law enforcement was corrupt enough to be paid to look the other way -- even patronizing the speakeasy themselves.
The name "blind pig" originated from barkeepers charging their customers to see an attraction (such as an animal) while providing a "complimentary" alcoholic beverage -- a clever way of getting around laws banning the sale of alcohol.
Next Chapter >>